


Advanced Chemistry

by Helicidae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drugs, M/M, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helicidae/pseuds/Helicidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>University AU. Sherlock knows that anyone stupid enough to put up with his brother's abusive tendencies is clearly not worth his time. At least, that is until Mycroft turns up for the weekend with his latest boyfriend - a med student named John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advanced Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=42146956#t42146956. Now revised (02/08/11).

When Sherlock first met John it was on the front doorstep of his tiny shared house, old crumbling student accommodation, in the rain.  About two words into John’s explanation as to why he was huddling against the wall in an attempt to remain dry (“Sorry, I think I’m staying here with my boyfriend but I guess I’m a bit early and he has the key…”), and Sherlock couldn’t and didn’t particularly want to stop the surge of irritation as he unlocked the door and let the two of them in.  Just typical.  It was bad enough that his brother invited himself over at all, but must he really bring along his bloody boyfriends as well?  It wouldn’t even be so bad if only Mycroft’s taste in partners wasn’t so _abysmal_.  All of them the same, as if there was a checklist that was required to be passed: good looking, physically small, intelligent, frustratingly _submissive_.

Sherlock dumped his books carelessly onto the kitchen table and wondered if it would be worth the lecture to leave this latest boyfriend in the hall.  But his brother’s aggravating voice was already grating in his ears and John looked just too miserable, damp and red in the nose and cheeks, short blond hair in messy clumps and clothes sticking to his small, thin frame (shirt designer and new but jeans and shoes high street brands, older - shirt a present from Mycroft but everything else his own.  Why?  Sentimentality?  Pride?).  Sherlock invited John upstairs, reluctant.  He lent him a towel, decided that spare clothes were going too far, opened his book and proceeded to do his level best to ignore the other man.  He owed his brother nothing, least of all the wasting of his time entertaining.

It was heading towards nine when Sherlock looked up and realised that John was no longer there, and he padded downstairs with the vague hope that Mycroft had suddenly discovered other plans for the weekend, picked up his boyfriend and left.  He was only very slightly disappointed (of course it would be too much to wish for) when he went into the kitchen and found John, sitting at the overcrowded table and holding a glass of water.  It had been drunk out of and refilled a fair few times, he could see.  Sherlock wondered for a split second whether John had eaten that evening and if he should offer something out of the kitchen’s admittedly miserable stock of edible food. 

He went to his bag instead, pulling out old lecture notes and a notepad he was doing some calculations in.  Across the room John was torn between looking at something on the table and looking highly uncomfortable, running a hand through his now dry hair before returning it to clutch at his again emptied glass.  Boring, useless.

“This is really amazing,” John said unexpectedly and Sherlock glanced up, half from curiosity and half out of irritation.  The last thing he needed was simpering flattery.  John, seemingly embarrassed even at having spoken at all, gestured towards some paper scattered over the table which Sherlock recognised to be the notes he’d been working on a while ago, a little puzzle about a poison that he’d abandoned incomplete when something else more interesting had turned up.

“Oxymyoglobin, is it?” John murmured, pointing at an unfinished section, and that possibly had been the most wonderful thing he could have said.  Because Mycroft’s boyfriends were always clever but boring, and yet who could be boring and still work out obscure xenobiotic metabolic pathways?  They were all intelligent enough to, given the right resources.  John was the first to bother to _try_.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, a soft exclamation as the thoughts clicked into place and he started to remember every little nuance of that poison that he’d previously worked out.  John was watching almost anxiously, Sherlock didn't know why because he was obviously correct.  “Of course, it catalyses the reduction of oxymyoglobin.”  The pathways slotted together, made blatant with the the final piece of the puzzle.  The realisation, albeit redundant by now, somehow didn’t sting as it always seemed to when someone else got the answer first.

“This is all yours?”  John was saying, and there was a quiet flush of pleasure about him, a small smile working its way up his lips at getting it right.  “I thought - Mycroft said you were in the second year, but this - I had a friend in her final year of chemistry master’s, and I swear what she did looked half as hard as some of this stuff.”

“This isn’t course material,” Sherlock found himself saying.  “In the supervisions occasionally I can get them to give me extra, like this.” 

“That’s amazing,” John shook his head as he spoke, but in more of wonder than anything negative.  There was something small and warm that flickered in Sherlock as John tentatively riffled through more of the papers.  “Wait, if you can solve it, why only occasionally?”

“If it’s more interesting, they know they won’t get their essays until it’s done,” Sherlock replied and John laughed in disbelief: a high, clear sound.

“Looks bloody difficult, that’s all I can say,” he smiled, straightening up to shrug his shoulders, and Sherlock couldn’t help but come around the table to order the notes, crumpling up and throwing behind him some useless calculations. 

“It’s not,” he said, well aware of the fact that he was showing off but not caring in the slightest.  Chemistry spilled from his mouth as if eager to be heard and not horded for once, and he pointed at parts of his own ungainly writing.  “Look, here it is in the bloodstream, where it acts to absorb this species, increasing Kc.”

John shrugged his shoulders again, let the information wash over him with very little actually sinking in.  “So you’re a chemistry genius, then,” he summarised.  “Any other amazing hidden talents I should be aware of?”

Sherlock grinned as he thought: _thank God Mycroft finally grew out of that obnoxious domestic abuse stage_.  Because, really, John was nothing at all like Mycroft’s insipid past boyfriends.

“You arrived on the train three hours ago,” he started, “departed Paddington twelve-oh-six.”

.

It was ten thirty and they were cooking dinner - or more accurately John was cooking whilst Sherlock picked out grammar mistakes from the cookbook - when Mycroft finally arrived.  As it had turned out from Sherlock’s deductions and later John’s confirmations and additions, John was a fourth year med student at Barts, going into surgery and thinking of joining the army as a medic.  He had an older sister named Harry and he played rugby and the clarinet.  He’d got lost twice between the station and the house (John had made Sherlock go over how he’d calculated his exact journey three times, the last two times grinning all the way through).  He was curious about Sherlock - genuinely curious, not just politely - but he didn’t pry.  He also hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning.

“John!”  Mycroft said, all smarmy, obnoxious smiles as entered the kitchen, clearly realising and clearly ignoring the sudden quiet that had fallen in the small room.  His suit was perfect despite the journey and rain outside. “I’m so sorry I’m late.  I trust Sherlock hasn’t been terrorising you too much?”  Sherlock pricked, snapping shut the cookbook and turning around.  He opened his mouth to retort but John had started to speak, putting down the wooden spoon he’d managed to salvage from God knows where.

“Mycroft,” John began, cheerfully, and was cut off as the older man bent down and kissed him deeply.  When they broke apart John was flushed and Sherlock strongly felt like leaving the room.  God, the last thing he needed was to have to watch his brother enact obscene displays of affection.

“Come along, John,” Mycroft said as he wrapped an arm around John’s waist, speaking into his ear, close enough to almost touch.  “Get dressed out of those clothes and I’ll treat you to dinner.  It’s rather late but I know some places here that you’ll love.  I brought your things; they’re in the hall.”

“What?”  John said, pulling back slightly so to better look Mycroft in the face.  “I mean, I’ve already cooked, it’ll be done in ten minutes.  There’s enough for the three of us.”

“You know how I think you should enjoy good eating more often, John,” Mycroft said, smiling.

“What, afraid normal food will turn him into a commoner?” Sherlock cut in, and apart from a glance from John was ignored.  The saucepan was starting to bubble over and Sherlock flicked off the heat with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

“Let me treat you?” Mycroft pressed, as he kissed the corner of John’s mouth.  “As an apology for being so late?”

When he was once again alone in the house, Sherlock shoved the saucepans into the fridge and went upstairs without eating.

.

Later, a fair bit past evening and coming close to morning, the front door opened and closed and two pairs of footsteps made their way up the creaky stairs.  Sherlock lay on his bed, ignoring the book in front of him, and regretted not taking up his friends’ offer that afternoon.  Friend being, of course, a term he’d rather not have to use but did anyway, because it was expected of him and because it was quicker and more efficient than terms that were more accurate but less likely to get him the end result, which was only drugs. 

The walls were thin.  Why the hell had he not learnt from the last times and moved his bed to the other wall - or better yet, arranged to go on holiday at the same time as his flat mates, so to never be stuck in the house with a spare room? 

Mumbles.  Then, a little louder: “not now!  Mycroft, your _brother’s_ in the next room.  We can’t just - Mycroft - I don’t even know who’s bed this is.”

There was a muted thump, then another, the sound movement against the bed.  John was two inches under average height and though thin he couldn’t really be considered overly small, yet Mycroft was a good six inches and three stone greater.  It didn’t take a considerable amount of imagination to picture John pressed up against the wall, designer shirt undone.  

Sherlock felt ill.  There was a minute of relative quiet.  Voices were too muffled through the plaster to hear the exact cadence.  “Seriously, _please_ , not now.”

Sherlock picked up his book and his pillow, sat under his desk with headphones on, and found that advanced chemistry has never been so hard to read before in his life.

.

Sherlock woke with a crick in his neck and a nauseous feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach.  He had fallen asleep with the book resting on one ankle and when he stood his foot was numb, straight edges of the cover imprinted onto his skin.

Downstairs in the kitchen Mycroft had John pinned up against the refrigerator, one hand hitching up his top and the other on the small of his back, pressing them together as they kissed.  Neither of them seemed to show any sign that they knew he was there.  Sherlock stopped dead and couldn’t help but stare for a short moment.

There were bruises visible on John’s left wrist where the sleeve had rolled partially up, others fainter, yellow and browned, on the side of visible ribs.  The marks on his wrist were quite clearly in the shape of fingers - as if Sherlock’s imagination was not already vivid enough.

Mycroft never did anything without meaning to, acting out life by calculating the score five moves in advance.  Mycroft knew whenever someone knew anything about him.  In all likeliness, the person who could see the bruises least clearly was the one who’s flesh they were currently decorating.

Domestic abuse was just another game, Sherlock supposed, to his brother.  Knowing exactly where it was safe to push, working to blur and then erase the lines completely.  “Trust me, Sherlock,” Mycroft had said.  “Who else listens to you, let alone understands you, here?”

“Yeah, the rugby’s a bit shitty sometimes, being this small,” John had said.  “Being tackled and all that.  People forget, I s’pose.  I just have to man up about it really.”

Sherlock turned around, out of the kitchen, and missed breakfast as well.  Maybe he would speak to his friends after the day’s lab work was over.

.

Sherlock came home late that evening, still high but only just.  John was sitting on the kitchen table again, reading - popular fiction, how boring - and best of all, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello,” John said, closing the paperback with one finger as a bookmark.  “Good day?”

“You need to leave,” Sherlock replied, dropping his bag onto the floor carelessly.  John frowned in confusion, shifting nervously. 

“What?” he said.  “Why?”

“Do you have any idea what number boyfriend you are?”  Sherlock continued, knocking some paper off a chair to sit, resting one bony ankle over the other knee.  “I don’t keep count, the last thing I want in my mind is voluntarily stored knowledge of that bastard.  I would say you’re the stupidest of the unfortunate half-dozen namely because you’re still here, but I won’t, because I’m sure it’s more than half a dozen and also because Mycroft got bored and left most of those idiots before they left him.”

“That’s not -” John began, frowning, but Sherlock cut through his argument ruthlessly. 

“You didn’t bring anything, all you have is what Mycroft brought, and that didn’t even include your wallet.  You haven’t eaten at all today because of that, because you have no money and you don’t feel comfortable taking food from a relative stranger’s house - and don’t say he _forgot_ , because honestly, let’s remember who we’re talking about.”  For some reason his voice had turned hoarse.  “He doesn’t care save for the fact that it makes you more appreciative when he deigns to _treat_ you with _good food_.” 

John was silent, fiddling with the dog-eared pages of his book, which was only all the more aggravating because Sherlock wanted him to argue.  He looked uncomfortable, thin, stupid in those expensive clothes that obviously had Mycroft’s fat fingerprints all over them.  Sherlock managed to swallow his next words because somehow he felt sure that they would very likely be asinine and ridiculous and he’d undoubtedly regret them later.  Maybe even more so than what he’d already said.  Instead he stormed out of the kitchen and went up to his room.

Hours later and the front door opened and closed for a second time.  Sherlock felt a well of dread as he listened to footsteps on the stairs and then in the room next to his, voices, and he wondered if reoccurring nightmares felt like this.  He’d never had any, at least none that he could remember. 

“Mycroft - tomorrow, when we’re back home?”  John was saying, muffled through the wall, broken up by short kisses.  “Honestly, I’m really tired right now.”

“That’s not what I see, love,” Mycroft said, and _dear God_ , Sherlock wondered as he lay there on his own bed if it was possible to hear something so horrific as to cause physical illness.

Physical illness was probably the cocaine, he reminded himself.

John was making small noises, tiny pants and exclamations and strained, sobbing gasps.  Sherlock should move, he really should go and sleep somewhere else, but that same paralysis that had got him as a child hiding under the duvet covers was clinging to his limbs now.  A dry thud and scratches on the hollow wall.  Sherlock wondered if he were to put out his hand, would he be able to feel the sounds as well as hear them? 

A thump, louder, and John exhaling as he bit out some word.  Sherlock couldn’t hear, he was already half way across the room and out in the hallway, then clambering with his duvet into the bath.  It was cold and a damp patch was growing just under his elbow - but it was _quiet_.  His head still hurt and he still wanted to be sick.  He wanted more cocaine.  The bath was too narrow to curl up in and too short to fit into without bending bony knees and Sherlock hugged his arms around his chest.

.

When he woke, late in the morning, it was to Mycroft’s insufferable face peering down at him with an expression of faux concern.  His legs had fallen asleep under him, the shower had dripped to soak one arm.  Sherlock didn’t move except to tense and furrow his brows to glare. 

“John’s gone home,” Mycroft said, amiably, and was it really too much for the smug bastard not to somehow slip ‘to _my_ home’ in there, implicit?  Even over ‘ _our_ home’?  “Really, Sherlock, I had hoped you’d have grown out of such pettiness by now.”

“Never again,” Sherlock said as he levered himself up.  “Get out.  Get out now.”

“Now now, let’s calm down.  Mummy is always so concerned for you, insisting on living out of halls as you do.”  Mycroft pursed his lips as Sherlock staggered up and out of the bath, grabbing his brother by the shoulder and pushing him bodily out of the room.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped.  “I’ll go back.  You’ve persuaded me.”

Mycroft made a tutting noise, pulling free but going down the stairs all the same.  “I’m afraid I have already promised to check up on you at least once a term.”

“No,” said Sherlock.  “No you’re not.”

“Really, you’d have me break my promise to Mummy?”

“You’re not,” Sherlock repeated.  Mycroft shook his head as he opened the front door and walked out leisurely, as if he were not in immediate danger of being literally thrown out had he not gone voluntarily. 

“See you next term, brother dear.”

Sherlock slammed the door and stalked back upstairs, only slightly unsteadily, to throw himself onto his bed and knock as many things over on the way there as possible.  He didn’t know it yet but he was right: Mycroft wouldn’t visit him in university again, if only because Sherlock would drop out after three more months.

He didn’t see John again until over a decade later.

:

:

Sherlock held the pipette carefully, dropping mixture onto the dish. Two footsteps entered the lab - Mike Stamford and one other: a limp and walking stick, hospital issued, a man - short, light, thin.  There should have been a precipitate by now, damn it.  Mike and Limp stopped, clearly wanting something from him, and wasn’t that just typical: non-significant results.  He’d have to start the whole thing again from scratch.

“I need to use your phone, Mike,” Sherlock said, distracted, barely listening.  After the mortuary he’d have to go back to his flat, review his notes on the substrate. 

“Here,” said Limp, and Sherlock looked up quickly, for once forgetting the chemicals in front of him as he put down the pipette.  John Watson was holding out his mobile: older, more tired John, wrinkles on his forehead and bags under his eyes John.  John Watson with a psychosomatic limp and a healthier level of weight than too-thin, clothes worn and comfy and unmistakeably his own, back from being an army medic John, smiling.  “Use mine.”


End file.
